


the benevolence of destiny

by foundCarcosa



Category: Elder Scrolls IV: Oblivion
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-04
Updated: 2015-11-04
Packaged: 2018-04-29 20:34:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,380
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5141630
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/foundCarcosa/pseuds/foundCarcosa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A man who would become Champion meets a man who would become Emperor; even with this, fate had even more in store for them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the benevolence of destiny

Mehrunes Dagon was coming, step by inexorable step, to the Temple of the One. Still, Martin Septim turned back, one last time.

Once, some months ago, a soft-spoken priest in dun robes had watched in horror as the city of Kvatch burned with daedric fire. He’d wished fervently for a blade and the skill and bravery to match, as soldier after soldier fell to the scourges of Oblivion. He’d not noticed the bedraggled man, tired and limping and smelling faintly of sewer sludge, but then again, why would he? Everyone in the camps outside of Kvatch looked like that, then.

He’d not noticed until that same man approached him after the gate was finally slammed shut, by that bedraggled Redguard who now limped towards Martin in piecemeal armour.  
Why had he believed him so readily when he’d called Martin _the Emperor’s son_ – such a bold and surely farcical statement, when Martin was so obviously nothing like the Septims of legend?  
Why had he believed him? When fate came calling, it was never pretty.  
But, underneath the soot and weariness, Nadir… Nadir _was_ pretty.

The Heartlands and the marshes of Blackwood, those suited the Redguard fine; but at Cloud Ruler Temple he shivered and complained and huddled under blankets that Martin draped around his shoulders as they palavered with Jauffre. Sometimes, when Martin draped a blanket around him, Nadir would reach up to pull it close, and their hands would brush. Sometimes, when Martin didn’t move his hand right away, Nadir wouldn’t, either.

Nadir fell in with the Dark Brotherhood in the process of following Martin’s instructions. Martin pleaded with him not to join, but it was too late by then. Nadir laughed at Martin – _“you want to make an honourable man of me, don’t you? Much like yourself? Remember, Martin, your father found me in a prison…”_ – and Martin had set him straight – _“and you found me as a priest, but I sat at the feet of Daedric Princes long before I had the privilege to sit at your feet, and it is not the loss of your honour that keeps me up at night, it is that of your life…!”_

Nadir told him he had a way with words, that sometimes he’d blink away tears thinking about things Martin had said to him, during the strangest of times.  
He stood in the middle of Cheydinhal Sanctuary, amidst the lifeless bodies of men he’d called “Brother”, and Martin’s voice came to him – _“Whether your hands be dirty or clean, I will always welcome you home”_ – and he’d nearly cried himself dry.

They wouldn’t let him leave the Temple, not even when Nadir was absent for weeks without word, not even when Martin grew cold and snappish with fear of losing the man to the likes of Lucien Lachance or Arch-Mage Traven or… Sam Guevenne… and Martin knew the Blades were sworn to protect him and he knew that Nadir would always return to him, at least to report on his progress in retrieving the instruments Martin needed. Martin knew, but still Martin feared.  
When next he saw Nadir, the man was gaunt and pale, paler than one would have thought possible for a sun-blessed child of the Alik'r, and he shied away from Martin’s embrace and hid his eerie, luminous gaze from Martin’s querying eyes, and the fear grew colder yet in Martin’s chest.

 _By Akatosh, I will_ not _let him be taken from me, taken into Oblivion’s embrace; not by any means. Not now, and not ever._

When Martin insisted on leaving the Temple, to help Nadir find his cure, the Blades could not hold him.

But they had no time to relax and regroup once colour returned to Nadir’s flesh and the gnawing hunger disappeared – for the Oblivion gates were yawning wide, and Mehrunes Dagon was coming.

And now Mehrunes Dagon was here, and Martin’s heart was heavy in his chest, heavy with all the hours he’d spent without Nadir, and all the hours they’d never have.

Today, a new emperor gripped the Amulet of Kings in his fist as he prepared to meet the Lord of Destruction. The city was roiling with fear and fire and death, but he was calm, calm and resigned… until he turned back to lay eyes upon Nadir one last time, Nadir, a lonesome Redguard of simple heart and complex destiny, who had come to him with nothing but had given him everything. Companion, friend, lover.

“Martin, _please!_ There _must_ be another way! Martin, _listen_ to me…!”

“Be still, Nadir,” Martin murmured, feeling the edges of the Amulet bite into his palm as he squeezed it tight. His eyes drifted closed as he succumbed to the indifference of destiny. “My sweet love. I am not going far from you… never going far…”

The last thing his body felt was the glass of the broken Amulet cutting into his hand, and the rush of searing heat that followed. The last thing he, Martin, felt was the lancing pain of an earthly bond being severed.

\------------

_You do not belong here._

“Oh, I’m _quite_ aware,” Sheogorath responded, smiling. He twirled his cane as he strolled, looking around him with great interest. “I’m quite aware… but, you see, I’m looking for someone. Someone… rather _smaller_ than you, dragon. _Are_ you a dragon? Rather dim, here, I can’t really see–”

_Why are you here, Prince of Madness?_

“Well, why am I anywhere? Why are you here, and not in the Shivering Isles? Why are humans on Nirn? Why is Lorkhan–”

_Answer me._

Sheogorath huffed and stopped walking, planting his cane in the fog-covered ground and crossing his ringed hands on top of it. “Oh, _fine,_ if you must be an insufferable ninny about it. I’m looking for the man who became a god.”

_You are the man who became a god._

“You mock me,” Sheogorath snapped, scowling. “I am no god, and I know it just as you know it. It was all a farce, a play at power. Madness at its best. Jyggalag… but never mind that, you know what I mean. You know _whom_ I mean. Where is…” Sheogorath faltered. “Is Martin…”

_Martin is gone._

Sheogorath bowed his head, resigned.

_So is Nadir. And yet… here we are._

The Prince inhaled, raising his head. His heterochromatic eyes gleamed hopefully.

_Martin wished to protect you from this. He knew when you found the Isles. He knew when you took up the mantle of Dementia, and fought the Greymarch. He wished to tear the Isles asunder to keep you from claiming them as yours, so that you may live a long mortal life upon the earth, and journey the Far Shores upon your natural death. But as Martin’s fate was always Aetherium, yours was always Oblivion._

“Are you Martin, or are you Akatosh?”

_Are you Nadir, or are you Sheogorath?_

“But it’s not the _same!”_ Sheogorath stabbed his cane into the earth in frustration. “Sheogorath is not a god! Akatosh is!”

_What, exactly, is a god?_

The Prince faltered, shrugged irritably, stuck his tongue out at the misty form of a dragon from whose general vicinity the voice emanated. “I miss Martin! I _miss_ him! Even now, in eternity! I wish to speak with him! I wish to know…”

_What is it you wish to know, dear Prince of Madness?_

“That I… have not failed him.”

_You could never fail him. And now, you and he are eternal. As it should be. As your legends will be on Nirn, so your souls will be, beyond Nirn._

Sheogorath reflected on this, and found a smile stretching his face even through the tears.

_Now leave this place, Madgod. My tempestuous son awakens. Soon, he will harry Skyrim the way the daedra harried Cyrodiil. And a descendant of your earthly bloodline will help the last Dragonborn put him back to sleep, much as you helped Us._

“Well! I wouldn’t miss that for the world,” Sheogorath commented, smiling still. He could almost feel his heart again, warm and vibrant in his chest, the way he’d felt it before he died his mortal death in New Sheoth. He rested his hand over the phantom organ as he bowed. “Thank you… Akatosh.”

_Until we meet again, Sheogorath.  
And we will. We always will._


End file.
